


Nocturnal Animals

by asuralucier



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Advice, Established Relationship, Interrupted Blow Job, M/M, Managerial Misconduct, Pre-Canon, Rimming, Shower Sex, Winston DGAF, and is just thirsty for John Wick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:13:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21671260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Winston and John Wick have something of an arrangement.
Relationships: John Wick/Winston
Comments: 1
Kudos: 102
Collections: 300bpm Flash Exchange November 2019





	Nocturnal Animals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psychomachia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/gifts).



> Was meaning to finish this before reveals, but it kind of got away from me. I hope you don't mind a late treat!
> 
> Inspired by [The Fly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4d4PzZ5bXYM) by Dave Matthews Band.

From a car around the corner, which afforded Winston just about a clear view of a certain building in a dead part of Greenpoint, he watched as a man fell out of a seventh-storey window. Normally, he wouldn’t have ventured this far north, but tonight was a special occasion. 

A moment later, John Wick emerged from the building in question, and not two minutes after that, the building blew up. A deafening blast, had Winston not come prepared. As the debris of the building became indistinguishable from nothing, he removed the earplugs he was wearing.

Winston leaned over and unlocked the door for him. John slid in wordlessly next to him, apparently content to let the acrid smell of explosives on his clothes do all the talking. After giving the man a beat to settle in, Winston said, “Nice touch.” 

“Thanks.” 

No doubt this contract had already been squared with the authorities above ground, like all the others, because Winston couldn’t hear any sirens, not that he expected to, but some habits were hard to break. 

“Did you check on Pendrecki?” 

John’s eyes were still and calm, like the top of a lake. The slightest ripple of confusion rolled through him now, and he shrugged. “Why? He fell out of a building. I saw him hit the ground. He’s dead.” 

“Check anyway,” Winston suggested, and it was a suggestion, even if John might not take it that way. “We’ve got time.” 

John’s expression turned an inch, but he got out of the car and slammed the door behind him. Soon afterwards, he was back, adjusting the side of his jacket, which said to Winston that he’d pulled a gun just to check. 

Winston relieved the driver and John took the wheel without being asked. After all, it wasn’t the first time, just the first time this far north. 

Winston kept one eye on the road, slowly showing signs of life on a weekend night, and one eye on John’s still pensive expression as he tapped his thumb against the wheel. It seemed as if a storm was brewing inside of the young man’s head. But the intensity sat longer on his tongue than it normally did, and Winston finally spoke first, “Are you hungry, Jonathan? We could go for dinner.” 

“Not really.” 

“Would you like to return to the hotel?” 

“I’d like to go home, I think,” John said. He turned to sniff at himself, almost suspiciously. “I smell. Thought you would have noticed.” 

Winston could only count on one hand the number of times when he’d been inside John’s apartment: a slapdash affair on the ground floor of a building in the middle of a not very nice block in Hell’s Kitchen. It wasn’t a stupid idea, but Winston couldn’t exactly call it clever either, to have one’s place of residence so thoroughly belie the reality of his profession. 

John left his front door open without looking behind him. After considering his options, Winston stepped inside too, and closed the door. 

John was already shedding layers, carefully tailored layers. It wasn’t until he pulled his t-shirt over his head, that Winston abandoned all pretense of trying not to look. John appeared to register this as a fact, and then went to turn on the light in the hallway leading to his bedroom and bathroom. The bulb came to life, after a couple of tries. 

“I’m going to shower. Make yourself at home.” 

Winston passed a hand over John’s discarded clothes on his settee, ratty, and secondhand. Apparently the couch had followed John from somewhere, somewhere that Winston couldn’t, and didn’t care to go. The couch was an eyesore, but the rest of the apartment seemed to lay bare the truth John wanted to hide about himself. But John wasn’t a messy person; he never could be, couldn’t survive that way. 

“One of these days,” John’s tongue dragged generously along the entire length of Winston’s cock and. And Winston dearly wanted the young man to stop talking and put his mouth to better use. “You’re going to get done in for managerial misconduct.” 

There was telltale damp creeping in at the edge of John’s bathroom ceiling and the warm steam from the still running showerhead wasn’t exactly helping matters. Winston sighed, “Is that what’s been talked about in the pipelines?” 

“You mean you don’t know?” John’s mouth went lopsided in an ironic quirk. “I thought nothing got past you. That you don’t miss a note.” 

“I think it’s that I don’t miss a memo, darling,” Winston said, but it was more out of an old habit from something else, another time, because John could have said just about anything and Winston would have taken it and ran. 

“Okay,” John said. 

“It’s not against the rules for the Manager want a sex life, Jonathan.” The moment he said it, Winston knew he was on shaky ground, and perhaps he should have stopped while he was ahead. 

Winston brushed a wet strand of hair out of John’s face, mostly to distract himself. That their little arrangement might have sparked up some conversation here and there, but everyone knew better than to really wag their tongues.

At least, Winston hoped they did. 

If they didn’t, maybe that was a worry for later. But John looked like he was still thinking, and perhaps things weren’t all right, after all. 

“Are you playing with me?” John said, finally and the earnestness in his voice gave Winston pause, the way that John probably didn’t intend, but Winston was getting to learn that it was not John’s way to intend things, but his body always did the talking regardless. Winston felt the urgency in his groin taking leave, and suddenly, he was almost relieved. Then John added, “I’m not...I guess, I just want to know.” 

Or perhaps not. One of his weaknesses was the continued edification of John Wick, and who knew it only took _I want to know_ to bring the next flood of blood back down to his dick. Winston adjusted himself discreetly, but still not out of John’s line of sight. 

Winston dragged his words. “And you’d like to know...now.” 

“Why not?” 

This was a new one, but then trust someone like John Wick to lead Winston to corners of the world he hadn’t known existed. That it was possible for a man upright to be held hostage by another who was looking curious and nearly penitent on his knees. He felt very much not himself, like a fly without wings, an entirely insignificant thing. 

At the same time, the good thing about John, was that if he asked a question, he only wanted an answer for that very thing, seeing no real reason to pry past, or wonder about the hows or whys. Parsed down, Winston thought he could almost live with his answer by the time it left his mouth. 

“I only want to be with you, Jonathan. Is that enough?” 

No fuss or frills, certainly no before or after, or that Winston was no longer privileged to the games of youth. Only what was true in the moment, and he felt said truthfulness pull very keenly south.

And it seemed that John just really did want to know, that he was learning cruelty in his own way. His seeming lack of a reaction settled meanly near the inside of Winston’s thighs, entwining a certain blackness along with the prickle of bright pleasure in his veins. 

“Yeah. I’m not playing either,” John said. He now leaned forward, head bowed, exhaled over Winston’s erection, and Winston shut his eyes. 

“Stop.” 

“Really?” 

Anything for the strange foreign dark to go away; if Winston wasn’t careful, he’d lose the consummate ability to save himself, something that had never before been in question, but the rules had been changed by virtue of a few words. Winston was “Yes. I have a better idea, turn around.” 

John looked down at himself, shrugged. “Still want me on my knees?” 

Winston considered this. “No. Stand up. Hands against the wall.” 

He watched John as he rose to obey, curiosity dark in his eyes, but it didn’t translate onto his body insofar as Winston could see, and he was ever the ardent observer. 

When Winston was finally satisfied with how John positioned himself, he reached past him to turn off the showerhead above them. 

“I forget how cold it gets,” John said, exhaling. The colors on his back moved as if he was trying to shake off the sudden sting in the air. 

“You’ll warm up. Bear with me.” 

Nowadays, Winston spent very little time on his knees, even if the position was not wholly strange to him. It felt only right that he revert to something like this when the rules he was so accustomed to breaking because he understood them, suddenly eluded his understanding. Winston lowered himself down, and availed himself to relearning the ever attractive curve of John’s arse, usually accentuated by carefully tailored trousers, but this was fine too. All skin, damp with the slight, inoffensive smell of soap. 

He mouthed first against John’s thigh, and then tentatively, but with certain purpose, Winston pushed his tongue inside of him, running slowly over his jagged edges, warm and wanting. Then he did it again, deliberately slow, but making his tongue heavy. 

John moaned, “Oh, _fuck_. Winston, _fuck_.” 

It was only when he’d tasted enough of John that the taste of him was everywhere and indistinguishable from anything else Winston could name, that he stood too, and John grabbed almost blindly behind him, as if desperate to reclaim what he’d lost. 

“I’m still here, Jonathan.”

If Winston was indeed going to get done in for managerial misconduct sooner or later, he was going to make sure he fucking deserved it. 

Later, they lay in John’s bed together in his Spartan bedroom, and John tucked his head under Winston’s arm, like he was much younger than he was, or perhaps he meant to imply exactly the opposite. 

“By the way, you were wrong.” 

“What was I wrong about?” Winston glanced at him. 

“Pendrecki was dead. He was dead when he fell out of the window.”

“Almost certainly,” Winston said. “I didn’t make you check because I thought otherwise. Use your head.” That was unkind, but maybe John deserved it. 

“I clipped him anyway,” John yawned and pulled away from him; the insult seemed to have rolled easily off of him with that one gesture. In the dark, Winston watched John as he slept, visited with the unnatural certainty that he was going to always open his eyes again the next night.


End file.
